


The Distant Clink of Ceramic (and Timelines Innumerable)

by cosmickaiju



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dissociation, Dr Nyarlathotep, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Just All Sorts of War Trauma Really, Memory Alteration, Non Consensual Memory Alteration, Nonbinary Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, and a nebulous concept of the enemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 02:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16076177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmickaiju/pseuds/cosmickaiju
Summary: It catches them unaware, and drags them under.





	The Distant Clink of Ceramic (and Timelines Innumerable)

 

Time is their domain— they simply can’t remove themself from that pretension, it’s too simple, too natural, threads twisting and twining beneath their adept ministrations, fabric folding neatly around cords they’ve chosen to sever, wrapping and warping around them, like an old friend. Except that mindset, that sort of existence, is dangerous in these times— they’re not the only one— the very fabric of reality is convulsing, contorting, fractal feedbacks and threads disintegrating into nothingness, timelines eating their own ends, möbius curves, infinitely more complex than the simple ouroboros of human mythologies. And it catches them unawares, drags them under, sinks conceptual claws into them, fracturing their timelines further, an unstable conglomeration of could have been-never-were potentials. That infinite capacity for pretension would be-was one of their kinds downfalls in the end— would likely be theirs too.  
  
They find themself on the edge of a gouge in reality, left behind by, well, did it really matter any longer? There were far too many potential horrors on any side, it had long since-never mattered whose weapons, whose actions had left behind this devastation. They’re shaking, staring down at bony, trembling fingers, long tan sleeves poorly hiding bloodstained skin— they remember this was their fault, they hadn’t been able to stop, had probably even caused this, despite not really remembering when they’d gotten this body. Despite remembering an old body— and another, soft, innocent, or as innocent as _they_ could be, long curls chopped off, a third, all sharp, and an android? and—  
  
There’s a sour taste, an ashy residue, in their mouth, a static deep in their bones and the feel themself tugged backwards into oblivion, anchored to some unknown point. Once they can breathe— once they can _exist_ again, they feel the wound properly this time, feel the knots, the repetitions— how many times have they tried to fix this? They see the after-before image of the wound, feel themself drawn back into the fray tugging at the web, pleading with probabilities, despite the fact they know they already won’t be able to change this again, know they’ve already escaped, know they’ve never been here, but time is collapsing in on them all the same, so they just keep

_P     u         l                l                        i                                  n                                                 g_

 

They hear the distant clink of ceramic, and what’s _that_ doing here that shouldn’t— and then a whiff of tea, a slight metallic taste, with the tiniest hint of nutmeg (something, no, someone, from Earth, the early 2000s then)— and _that_ certainly shouldn’t be here, not amongst the battlefields (not that they could be called battlefields anymore, or ever could have been), not billions of light years away. A hand on their arm (warm, definitely human) suddenly, but there’s no one next to them, there’s no one here, everyone else is dead, or never existed, gone from this place—  
  
It must be some sort of trick, or a ghost of a truncated timeline or, or, _or_ —  
  
And they’re back in their Ship suddenly, a human they don’t recognize setting tea down in front of them (and when did they even get into the kitchen?), hand moving to rest lightly on their arm (it’s still unnerving how they can hardly feel humans’ minds). Their flesh form jerks back, begins to unfurl on instinct, perceiving this unknown human as a threat, after everything they’d just been through— no, remembered (though there was something in the corner of their mind about this ginger— something about a wedding?). The human jerks back from them too, and they can sense fear exuding from it (a sort of citrus-y yellow-green), as they stare unblinkingly down at it with more eyes and limbs and shadows than it could ever expect, ever even truly perceive. There’s something familiar about that fear though, definitely something about a wedding and spiders, no, the Dark Times, no, Racnoss— and it’s all _flooding_ back to them.  
  
‘ _Donna…’_ they manage to croak, their flesh form’s voice soft, yet too loud to their own senses, and too many layers of sound and incomprehensible syllables to hers, a lilting, reverberating thing.  
  
‘Donna...’ they repeat, softer this time, trying to fight down the rising panic that they’d done irreparable damage by letting her see them, (even though it wasn’t even all of them), as they respindle themself back together as quickly as possible (they can fix it later, when they don’t need to check that their companion is okay).  
  
‘Donna,’ they murmur, once more, hands raised in front of them to show they mean no harm as they approach her— and certainly, the only reason said flesh form’s hands are trembling is because they’d respindled a bit too fast, nothing more, certainly not.  
  
‘It’s just me, there’s not a thing to worry about.’ Their voice is a bit strained still, but at least now it’s only a single voice, no extra sounds to frighten their companion (and oh, they love humans, but they’re just so easily scared). They take a few steps towards her, wincing internally at the way she leans warily away from them, at the fear in her eyes, and try to keep their face blank, calm, in order to keep from startling her further, though it doesn’t appear to help. With a soft sigh of defeat, they reach out quickly, pressing their fingers to her temples before she can move away.

 

* * *

 

Their body is respindled properly and their tea is cold by the time she comes to. They’re staring into its depths, counting the undissolved sugar granules that have settled to the bottom, and trying to ignore the way their hands are still shaking, the way their brain deems it necessary to pull up its catalogue of every other time this has happened (it became too many to count a long time ago). They can feel the TARDIS’s worry in their mind, and they distantly wonder whether said catalogue was her doing.  
  
Their impatience to see Donna awake, to see her _okay_ , gets the best of them, and they let their fingers drum restlessly on the edge of the table, staring across it at her unconscious form, still slumped in the chair they’d placed her in. There’s a fear, still sitting deep in their chest, a worry that they’ve permanently mucked things up, and it only serves to accentuate the tremors in their hands. The drumming will help hide that, they hope— the less questions, the better. They can sense she’s beginning to wake; there’s that slight change in the breathing pattern, and the timelines around her fan out further, multiplying with more possibilities now that she’s returning to consciousness.  
  
It’s clear that they’re too nervous (they’re not _scared_ , certainly not) about how this will go, too worried she’ll want to leave, _they don’t want her to leave._ So maybe she’s not ready to see all of them physically yet, maybe she’s still too human for it to ever be okay; but she still understands and sees _them_ through all their bouncing smiles and flailing flesh limbs and she helps, with her own force-of-nature sort of care. Their mind is spinning through too many possible scenarios, too many ways they could act— how should they even be sitting when she comes to?—  they can’t be too calm, can’t be staring at her too intently; humans find it odd, when they don’t blink, can’t look too nervous, can’t be a plethora of other possibilities.  
  
In the end, it turns out they’re too caught up in the “what if’s”, too lost in thought, that so little of their attention is on her upon her waking, and they don’t _really_ notice her coming to. In fact, there’s a real, proper deer-in-the-headlights look on their face when her eyes open and she focuses on them, and _that’s_ certainly dashed any chances they had of getting out of this with as few questions as possible.     
  
A small part of them is technically watching, wordless, as she takes stock of her surroundings, as a confused seeming frown settles on her features, as she notices her seated position, and the tea she’d remembered bringing (but nothing after that) sitting cold and untouched in front of them, before her gaze falls on them. But they’re still too worried; mind spiraling to the most catastrophic possibilities— and she’s frowning (and her mouth is moving and they certainly haven’t got a clue what she’s saying but it’s probably _bad_ ). The universal human sign for unhappiness, a frown, and that won’t do at all— perhaps they should attempt to cheer her up, but what if she dislikes that they’re making light of the situation and—  
  
‘Oi! Earth to Spaceman!’ Her voice is suddenly cutting through the air, jarring them out of their thoughts. Their fingers pause their restless tapping and they blink once, twice at her.  
  
‘Huh?” they finally respond, finding their flesh form’s mouth is dry, making their voice sound the slightest bit scratchy.  
  
‘What the _hell_ is goin’ on? You weren’t responding, and then I’m unconscious— and now that I’m awake you’re still hardly sayin’ a word!’  
  
They stare for a few brief moments, unsure what to do about the tinge of worry, despite her angry words, and grateful that their memory wipe appears to have gone off without a hitch. Eventually they speak again, waving one hand casually in the air, hoping to dispel her questions as easily as they had her memories, but their voice is hollow and they can’t quite muster their usual (false) pizzazz yet.  
  
‘Oh that? Just an accidental telepathic defense mechanism, bit of a mishap— you surprised me is all— and then poof!’ They spread the fingers of their hand out dramatically to demonstrate. ‘Unconscious Donna— just a mistake, won’t happen again, no need to worry.’  
  
Their last few words are too rushed, and they pick up their tea cup, downing the room temperature beverage to hide their face. They note with a bit of surprise that it’s got the full amount of sugar they like. Normally, she wouldn’t do that, whether it’s to get them to consume less sugar or so she doesn’t have to make it for them. Had they really been that obviously _off_?  
  
A glance over the cup at her face indicates she clearly hasn’t bought a word they’ve said. They set the cup back down, poking at the globs of sugar left at the bottom with their finger in a fruitless attempt to avoid her questioning.  
  
‘Spaceman, you have to _talk_ to me,’ she insists in that brash way of hers that’s hers and hers alone, that they’ve grown to care for since their very first encounter. ‘You _are_ bonkers if you think you can just, I don’t know, brush this off— the TARDIS was changin’ all around me, and then when I finally manage to find you, you _go and knock me out!_  
  
‘I told you already Donna, you just surprised me, is all,’ they insist, hunching their form down towards the cup, hoping she gets the hint and leaves them alone (they don’t really want to be alone, not right now, not this soon after but if she stays she’s going to just keep _pushing_ ), finger jabbing harder at the bottom of it.  
  
‘Rubbish! I’ve surprised you loads of times and you’ve never knocked me out before! Like that time on what was it called— that Ood planet, when I whistled and you ducked like, I dunno, someone was shooting at you…’ Her voice trails off momentarily. ‘What was that about anyways?’  
  
‘Donna— **_Stop it_ **.’  
  
Their voice is louder than it’s been since she’d woken up, harder, as they let a bit more of the rest of their voice into it, words sharp. Their thin finger presses down hard into the cup as they do so, and they’re suddenly watching a crack run up the side, splitting it in two as the ceramic falls apart to lay on either side of their hand. They swallow thickly, watching the way their hand quivers between the two halves, knowing they’ve lost this particular battle of pretending they’re okay. They don’t like thinking about things like that; how it changed them, especially so soon after remembering, when they’re still _vulnerable_.  
  
They watch absently as her hand hesitantly moves to rest on top of theirs, squeezing gently, whether its as reassurance or to try and stop their trembling, they’re unsure. But the gesture is enough to make them glance back up at her, noting worry even more evident on her face. Despite their need to run away, to just continue to pretend they’re fine, because they are, because they have to be, the fact that the timelines twisting around her seem to have condensed again into some future where she attempts to reassure them is calming. Grounding even; as much as they can be as a multidimensional time sensitive being, that is.  
  
‘At least explain to me what was going on with the TARDIS.’ Her words are gentle, still every bit Donna but not yelling, not angry. Part of them wants her to yell at them— at least then they can be angry back. With this, they can’t quite help giving in.  
  
They let out a slow sigh, attempting to release the tension in bits of them they didn’t even know could get that tight, their bony hand relaxing slightly under her touch.  
  
‘It’s— the TARDIS and I are…. connected…’ they trail off, frowning.  
  
Putting it that way seems so simplistic, so inaccurate a description of their relationship with her. How woven together the two of them have become— how much she’s them and they’re her. Even now, they can feel her, entangled with them on dimensions humans couldn’t even fathom, trying to soothe them as best she can, the both of them too complex and far reaching to possibly keep them grounded in the here and now when it came down to it.  
  
‘And she’s far from static— so sometimes, during certain moments it’s almost a sort of… feedback loop of things, thoughts, feelings, et cetera, between me and her and things go a bit… wonky.’ They’re trying their best to explain this in a way she’ll understand, while simultaneously trying to avoid mentioning why it started in the first place, hoping the explanation will prove distraction enough to prevent more questions.  
  
‘And you goin’ all unresponsive made her do… all that?’ They can hear the tinge of fear in her voice, feel it roll off her in a sort of prickly wave. Clearly they were mistaken on just how much their state of being affected her physical state in turn— and it worries them just enough for the truthful answer to roll off their tongue.  
  
‘Yes.’ Their words are soft, still staring down at where her hand rests on theirs, simultaneously extending their senses to check there wasn’t any permanent damage to their ship— there’s not, but they still ought to be more careful in the future.  
  
‘Why?’  
  
She gives their hand a firm squeeze to get their attention, and it’s enough to get them to glance up at her, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are serious, stern, expecting a proper answer from them. Yet there’s still a soft worry to the way she holds herself, the way her hand remains on theirs, holding them in this moment. And maybe she could never fathom the depths of their memories and experiences, but the fact she’s willing to listen, despite their almost constant unwillingness to share— they’re grateful for it.    
  
‘Just… lost in thought, I suppose.’ But they still can’t bring themself to admit it quite yet, even now. They watch her scowl at the for this response, almost as if they’re further removed from their flesh form than usual (dissociation, an annoyingly unhelpful bit of their brain supplies), and their gaze flits away, hands twitching slightly.  
  
‘I know you, Spaceman,’ they hear her insist, distantly, as if a fog has filled the room, preventing sound from travelling as well. ‘You’re thinking all the time with that big alien brain of yours— what makes this time different?’  
  
It’s a few long moments before they speak again, voice small, their hands trembling slightly, even under her grasp. Enough to give them away they know— they’re sure she can put two and two together, especially with her experience. Even if they won’t admit the full truth to themself.  
  
‘Memories.’  
  
She takes a few moments to respond, her other hand moving to join the first resting on top of theirs. They’re surprised, not sure what to make of this response, not sure what it means— and the confusion must show on their face, because she smiles at them a bit, shaking her head slightly. Her expression becomes more serious again a few moments later, but there’s still a tiny gentle smile on her face, and they’re glad because she must not be mad at them any longer, must be staying, despite the transpiring events.  
  
‘I get it, or maybe I don’t, not really, but before you get on your whole “High and Mighty Time Lords are different than humans” schtick, just hear me out. My gramps, he fought in the war, and while I didn’t really know ‘im before it, I know it still changed ‘im. Nightmares and the like. He had this way of avoidin’ them, though. Me an ‘im, we’d go up on this hill of his he loved stargazin’ on and he’d spend hours teachin’ me how to spot certain things. Mind you, I couldn’t remember most of it, but those hours he spent talkin’ helped keep him in the present.’    
  
Their head tilts slightly in response as she pauses for a moment, not completely sure how this is supposed to help them, but she’s essentially told them to stay quiet until she’s done, so they’ll do their best to respect that.  
  
‘Now, I’m certainly not giving you permission to come wake me up at 3am on a whim because you thought, “Ooh, I bet Donna would like to see this place,” cos I don’t care how grand it is, I will smack that silly Time Lord head of yours.’ The corner of their mouth quirks up the slightest bit at her words. They could always trust Donna to be so very… Donna.  
  
‘But if you ever have a day like this, know you can come find me Spaceman. I’ll listen to you blabber on about whatever suits your fancy if it’ll help you not get stuck in that vast memory of yours again.’  
  
They stare at her for a few moments, a bit stunned, dark, piercing eyes searching her for any lack of sincerity. They don’t find any.  
  
‘Okay,’ they murmur.  
  
And then they’re standing up abruptly, giving her hand a slight squeeze before extricating their own from her grasp, gingerly picking up the broken pieces of ceramic before tossing them in the trash.  
  
‘I should make another cuppa, since that one got cold— do you want any this time Donna?’

 

* * *

  

They take her up on her offer once or twice, when it gets particularly bad, and it seems to work well enough to keep them from falling too deep into their memories, though it doesn’t stop the flashbacks altogether. Once they walk hand in hand through one of the TARDIS’ gardens as Donna marvels at all the plant life around them, and they regale her with tales of beautiful planets they’d been to in the past that’d housed some of the plants present.  
  
Another time, they couldn’t quite find their voice, so instead they’d settled into their library, and she’d read out loud to the pair of them until her voice was almost gone and they had let themself grab a few snatches of rest, head resting on her lap. When they’d stirred after only a brief time, she’d shoved them off, grumbling about how heavy they were for being such a skinny stick, but they could see the relief on her face through her half-hearted annoyance.  
  
This time, when it happens again, when they jolt from their memories, they’re alone, tangled in the wires under the console, skin still tingling from the shock the TARDIS had given them in an attempt to snap them out of it. This time, Donna’s not around. She doesn’t even remember the offer.


End file.
